


The Graveyard Shift

by Tolpen



Series: The Skirt of Time [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Noir, Attempt at noir, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Character Much More Intelligent Than The Author, POV Third Person, Skin picking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-12-06 23:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18226916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: (You don't need to read The Boys With War Paint before you start reading this story.)Vetinari is slightly against his will dragged into a family problem, all the while he has to sort out his feelings about a very handsome florist, who happens to be his ex-classmate and bully, before a very charming woman gets either of them, because then it is going to be late to sort out anything.Set in the timeline where John Keel became the Patrician of A-M, Downey dropped out fo the school after graduation, and Vetinari handles the family bank.Look, you are going to click on fic tagged as Flowershop!AUandGraphics Description of Violence. Honestly, if you aren't expecting the corpses, it's your own damn fault.





	1. The Aunt from Genua

It was that morning when anything could happen.*

Vetinari was reminded of that when he walked into his office and was met by a suspicious object on his desk.

'What is that?' He pronounced each word as though it was a sentence on its own.

His secretary shuffles her feet in the grey flats nervously. 'Flowers, sir.'

'Why is it on my table?'

The bare white walls nearly swallowed her answer: 'I thought it a good touch, sir. Since you are seeing a client today.'

He ought not to be hard at her. Mrs. Lime was a hard-working woman who had never showed him nothing but respect. Her opinion on people could be trusted. If she considered the flowers a good impression upon the clients, then a good impression upon the clients it was. But unfortunately he also had a reputation to uphold.

'I have made my point of my office to be barren, Mrs. Lime.'

'Yes, sir. You have.'

'I hate to repeat myself, Mrs. Lime.'

'Yes sir. You do.'

'Then why,' his fingers steepled, 'is there this bouquet in vase on my table?'

'I thought something lush could go easy on the eye. You have been complaining about the headaches for the past two weeks. I'm sure you've gotten yourself an eye-strain, Mr. Vetinari.' She had always called him Mr. Vetinari.

He was a Lord, of course, Vetinaris were an old Genuan family, but Mrs. Lime cared not even a left bollock for that. And that was just as well, because Vetinari paid his secretary to handle three things: the morning coffee, card file, and wanna-be posh investors who wouldn't know real money had it clocked them in face.

There had been a time she used to call him Havelock, too. That was a long time ago.

'Now, sir, if you are done complaining, there is the Überwaldean gentleman who'd like to close his account, and he is here to see you at nine o'clock. The file is already on your table too.'

'Ah, Mr. Stamp, isn't it? Very well then, let him wait for, say, ten minutes in the antechamber.'

The floral composition – three stalks of the crimson lily-of-the-valley and a single lady's-slipper orchid, all bound in eight leaves of gods-know-what – stayed on the table with the vase.

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

  
  


It had had many names thorough the years. The Bank of Genua. The Noble Bank. The Golden Counting House. It didn't matter what it was called, it was in the Vetinaris' hands. Granted, when the fairy godmother came into Genua, the Vetinaris were greatly reduced in numbers. All that was left there was an old man with one foot in grave, and his young grandson once removed. Time went on, the man grew even older, and the young boy grew up into a young man and then into just a man.

Old Lord Nicol Vetinari couldn't move from his chair without help. His tongue was sharper than his brain, and his brain was sharper than a stiletto of the Genuan particular businessmen*. He couldn't leave Genua bu he also couldn't leave the art of money fall to ruin, or worse – to Lilith's hands. The Genuan particular businessmen had soon found out what a shot that man was with a crossbow. They had failed to realize the in the Vetinari family you didn't get to be old by making mistakes or being easy to kill.

And then there was _Havelock_.

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

Had he known what was to follow, the bouquet would have been taken with the afternoon trash. As Vetinari was clueless of the future and all her ladies in black, the flowers remained on his desk for four days. Then they wilted enough that Mrs. Lime threw them away and brought a replacement.

So that was the new routine. A bare office, black and white, a neat angular banker, also black and white, and a small sober flower arrangement in a glass vase, colourful, usually blue, sometimes red and yellow.

Maybe the flowers and the expenses connected to them would have been tolerated, hadn't it been for the Madam.

Madam. Madam Roberta Meserole. Aunt Roberta. Friends called her Bobbie. Vetinari called her Madam.

She walked into his office one chilly autumn afternoon. There was fog laying around the streets with a promise of rain in the evening. She hadn't an appointment. Neither of them, to make it clear. But the fog at least had the decency not to be smug about it.

The Madam was wearing fuchsia that day, deep cleavage, slim skirt. Heavy gold jewellery. Not a good sign.

'Havelock,' she sat down with a nod.

'Madam.'

'Surely you wonder Why I have decided to pay you a visit.'

'Not really, no.' He steepled his fingers to indicate she had his full attention. 'Surely it isn't about money. Not directly, anyway.'

The Madam crossed her arms. A defensive gesture.. A very bad sign. 'Not directly, indeed.'

'Well?'

She looked straight into his eyes. That sort of look which pierced right thorough the soul and pinned it on the wall behind you. 'My girls here have been disappearing. Two in this month, two the previous one. The first two we have found dead in gutters in the outskirts. The third one turned up yesterday.'

'I fail to see how that concerns me and my business.' Vetinari saw exactly how it concerns him and his business. He had to tell Mrs. Lime to cancel all his afternoon and evening appointments for the following month or maybe even two. Probably two.

'I want you to stop those disappearances, Havelock.'

'I am not the City Watch, Madam. I'm a banker.'

'And a trained assassin.'

'Yes, I eliminate people for money if I find it convenient. Report to the City Watch.'

The Madam looked at him coldly. They both know she wouldn't go to the City Watch even if it was the only option she had. 'Better not. Lord Keel likes me. I'd like to think our relationship has a future. You, on the other hand, are not fond of me. And there is no surprise for you to uncover.'

'Besides of who is slaughtering your workers like pigs.' He siped the tea long gone cold. Even cold it was excellent.

'Don't sound so cheerful, Havelock. It doesn't suit you.'

Vetinari pondered whether he should give her a grim smile or a quirked eyebrow. As it was, he remained as expressive as a the walls of his office. 'I am of the opinion, Madam, that I am allowed to be as enthusiastic as I wish to be about any job I do on the side.'

The Madam nodded and stood up. To leave once she had what she wanted, how typical of her.

'I would tell you to send my regards to the Patrician when you see him this evening, but I doubt he remembers. After all, it had been fifteen years. Have a nice afternoon, Madam. Don't let me detain you.'

The look on her face was empathetically sad. Or perhaps the fog behind the window was casting strange shadows into the room. 'I think you are mistaken. Lord Keel remembers you very well. Afternoon, Havelock.'

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

  
  


The following morning he would learn than on her way home Mrs. Lime slipped on the wet cobblestones and broke her ankle. Nothing serious, but she wasn't exactly young eight years ago when he hired her, and the time had never been merciful to anyone.* It was going to heal only slowly.

Now it was midnight. There was nothing mysterious or magical about it. Vetinari was on his way from the morgue. Death was never beautiful, but this one was especially heinous. He had kept his dinner down, but only because the mortician looked like a gossip with legs. Very pretty legs.

To charm his way into the morgue, he had given her flowers. Girls like that, especially when they are on a boring night shift, and especially from a handsome man. Vetinari wasn't a handsome man, but people liked to tell him he was. He was tall, intelligent, rich and unmarried, the people just failed to see the difference.

That late into the night there was no flower shop open. Miss Marbledust ended up with the greens from his office – blue irises, nicandras and remember-you-not's. Miss Marbledust had proven to have at least the basic knowledge of toxicology, and did not handle the flowers in bare hands.

Jenny, one of Madam's girls was very dead and rested in pieces. Ugly work. A saw, most likely. That meant Vetinari was looking for someone strong. It didn't narrow it much, but it was at least something.

Now Vetinari was headed to the Guild. A place he avoided, but some things had to be done. He had never felt like he fitted in. He had studied the same school, he wore the same black, he carried the same blades, he dabbled in the same politics, knew the same faces, dealt with the same money. But he had never been one of them. Not like he had really tried. Not like they had ever let him, either.

He walked up the sinister staircase* and made his way unseen to the Purple Lounge. The Purple Lounge was almost a bar, but there was exclusively hard liquor, shrimps, olives, and an absolute lack of scarcely clothed ladies. Or any ladies at all. Twice a week Ms. Gravish came to clean the carpets and restock the cabinets, but aside from that the lounge was untouched by a woman's hand. It looked like it.

Ludorum was sitting at the back with a glass of brandy which was more empty than full. Ludorum was the principal of this whole circus. Ludorum was probably the only reason the Guild was still standing.

'Hey Vetinari. What happened that you show your face around here?'  
Vetinari took the opposing armchair. 'Why do you think something happened?'

'I'm not daft. You don't come here unless you think you have to.'

'That's not true.'

'Right. When you think you have to, and when you want to read a cheesy crime novel with cheap background romance. Point taken. But you're not in the library, so something happened.'

Vetinari gave in. He was planning to do it anyway. After all, Ludorum was the only person reasonable enough to talk to and to rely on. 'There have been dead seamstresses. For reasons better not to discuss, the Watch shouldn't get involved.'

'And you think I can give you a helping hand?'

Vetinari smiled. It was a warm smile, a rare one. 'No, Ludo, I know you can't. You are too busy being a respectable public person and keeping these maniacs from loosing it. But I'm sure you know someone who could be the helping hand.'

'Hmmm...'

'Don't you 'Hmmm..' at me.'

Ludorum finished his brandy. 'What do I get out of it? Out of helping you, anyway?'

The matter is considered. 'Name your price.'

Another glass of brandy. Vetinari only shook his head when Ludo offered him the other glass. So now the Master of the Assassins had one brandy in each hand. 'I tell you what. You show up at the Hogswatch ball and we're even.'

'That,' Vetnari growled, 'better be good help you're sending me to.'

'Only the best for you, Vetinari. The man you want to speak with is Downey. Cheers.' Ludorum clinked the glasses together. Apparently, the Patrician had been giving him hard time. The man's displeasure with the Guild was well known. Sometimes Vetinari wondered why had Keel even legalized it when he hated it so much.

'There are two problems with that. I haven't seen Downey since the day we graduated. And neither have you. His license expired four years ago and he hasn't been around to renew it. I know, I looked on the list.'

'For someone who doesn't give a rusty fart about the Guild you are keeping yourself well informed,' Ludorum noted.

A shrug. 'I am the other head of an old family bank which is very unpopular with the current regent of Genua. I like to know who might drop in for a visit.'

'Then it shouldn't be much of a problem to find Downey for you, should it? You're the headology guy here. I'm nearly certain that he hadn't headed out of the city, he's too much of an urban rat for that.'

'That brings me to the other problem.'

When Ludorum poured the brandy the second time, Vetinari took it. Speaking of Downey was nothing he wanted to do sober. Or to do at all. 'What other problem?'

'I don't want to work with Downey.'

'You don't?'

'I'd rather be chit-chatting here than to work with Downey,' Vetinari confirmed.

'Fine. Then maybe there is someone else. But if you don't show up at the ball, I'm gutting you out personally, we clear?'

Vetinari nodded.

'Madam July.'

'There is a Klatchian saying, I'm sure you are familiar with it.'

Ludo, whose whole family with both of his wives resided in Al-Udorum, grinned: 'About devils and scorpions. I think I might have heard it before, yeah. But it's the best help I can give you. And the only help I can give you without risking anybody's precious neck. Now, haven't you got some murders to look into and a bank to run? You wouldn't want to detain me, would you.'

'Ludorum, you're going to be fried in Hell.'

'I'll hold you a spot next to me. Just so you wouldn't say I'm not a friend.'

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

  
  


The morning came. Mrs. Lime was late because of her broken ankle. It was actually a miracle she came at all. At quarter to ten Vetinari got a headache because his eyes strained from the barren harsh outlines of his office and his vicious squinting at the accounting books. He was bent on managing them all before the noon, because he was planning on seeing Madam July in the afternoon.

When one was going to see Madam July, it was pointless to make an appointment. But it was necessary to keep one's head clean if you didn't want to be taken advantage of. So no alcohol, no drugs and no headaches.

Mrs. Lime was kind enough to give him the address of the florist, but not kind enough to hide her self-satisfied smile. The smile which said 'I told you' without saying a word.

The flower shop was in the outer part of the town. People living in the centre wouldn't even call in Ankh-Morpork anymore. It was the part of the town which neighboured with the Shades, separated from it only by what was now remaining of the city walls. This part of the city was known as the Dulls. The shop itself was on the corner of the Corkscrew Street and Flimsy Lane, twenty minutes by a carriage from the Shambling Gate.*

It was also next to the Dulls' cemetery, known to the locals as the Dullard. A small shop with dusty displaying windows and a frayed doormat exclaiming _WE COME,_ because the _L_ had been completely walked thorough. A place of loud desparition.

A doorbell announces his arrival in a too cheerful manner. It is out of tune.

There is an old man behind the counter who carries himself as if he owned the place but had no actual idea what he was doing with it. Owner of the shop or a manager. Although, this place looked a bit small to have a manager. So an owner it was.

'May I help you, sir?'

'I'd like to buy some flowers.'

The owner brushes grey locks of hair from face and looks around. 'A good place. What occasion? For a lady, perhaps? For a grave?'

'Nothing as important as that.' At that the owner seemed to sadden. 'Just a small arrangement for an office. Something sober.'

'I see.' The man did not seem to see.

'My secretary had been ordering from your for me since the past Ick, but unfortunately she had fallen indisposed,' Vetinari elaborated.

That had struck home. 'Oh yes. Yes, I recall. The boy's in the back, he'll wrangle something for you. I bet he'll be happy to finally meet you face to face. He doesn't like doing them blinds, you see.'

Vetinari looked at the back door. They didn't seem inviting. That was mostly caused by the very stringently looking sign saying _Staff Only!_ twice underlined.

Nevertheless, he took the door by the handle and entered. Had he known earlier, he would have gone to July's with a headache. Or maybe had he known earlier and had he known more, he would have entered anyway, only better prepared.

As it was, now he could only curse himself for ignoring the obvious. Truth be told, the crimson lilies-of-the-vally and nightshades and remember-you-nots should have told him. He just wasn't listening.

'Well hell-o' there. Haven't seen you for a long one, Dog-Botherer.'

*That was for a very simple reason: That morning, Time had slipped into a skirt, because she was dressing up in hurry. Were it trousers, the future would had been split binary, equal chances for each of the trouserleg. But this was a _skirt,_ the legs could go _anywhere,_ and _anything_ could happen. And that was exactly what proceeded to happen.

*What their particular interests were was none of your concern if you knew what was good for you. In their own words: 'That is _our business_.' But of course, they would say it in Brindisian, because Morporkian was below them.

*It was worth noting that Time herself was a very merciful woman, considered the whole Überwaldean affair or the whole Glorious May business; while there still were some universes in which the Commander didn't make it home, she made sure that his son would be fine. Although the definition of fine was very loose by her. In one of the trouserlegs, the child was looked after by a quasi-demonic entity made of darkness and vengeance. Anyway, that is a very different story for some other time.

*There was nothing mean-spirited, insidious or ominous about the staircase. It was simply leading to the left wing of the buildings. Assassins liked to pretend they had a sense of humour. The Fools' Guild literally next door both disagreed and disapproved.

*That meant seven minutes by foot. Due to the city traffic, all carriages moved only very slowly, especially around the city gates. The fastest way to get anywhere was by foot.

 


	2. The Pragmatical King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the banker fails to recall a song, a dog sets a devious trap, and a king has an appointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No proofreading, on this account we typo like idiots.

The back room felt tropical. A fireplace with roaring fire with pots of water in it and around it, so the place was both hot and humid. Vetinari felt his shirt and coat clinging to his back. The air is heavy with water and the smell of flowers which should not be blooming at this time of the year, but here they were.

For a back room of a shop, the place was painfully verdant. The exact opposite of Vetinari's office back in the counting house.

Downey was sitting cross-legged on the floor, clipping a... a flower. He was wearing a light shirt and an apron, and gloves which were more of gauntlets, so the plant he was tending to wasn't particularly friendly. Vetinari could see it snapping at his fingers. So it was probably parsley-tongue.

He took his coat off. If he was to withstand Downey's presence, he was not willing to do it boiling alive in his own stew.

'Good morning.' It sounded cold and formal. A bit too much cold and formal to pretend Vetinari has no memory of that man.

Downey stood up. As effortless as he seemed, the room climate hadn't left him untouched. The shirt is tight on his chest and shoulders like a second skin.

Vetinari is suddenly aware how much he is sweating and how much of that is caused by the heat.

'I sort of hoped you came to see me just because you missed me. Oh well, can't have everything, I suppose.' Downey took the gloves off and threw a piece of wood to the fire. 'What can I get for you?'

'I'd like a flower.'

'Just one?'

Vetinari glared at him and Downey didn't seem to mind. He had this almost carelessly looking smile on his face as if he wasn't giving a damn in the world. Seen from the three-quarter angle, it looked actually a bit charming and a great deal provoking.

'A small arrangement for my office. Something sober,' he elaborated. There was the risk that if he hadn't spoken his mind on the matter, he would end up paying for something horrible. He wasn't having that.

'Say,' Downey turned to the flowers, 'haven't you got a secretary?'

'As a matter of fact I have. Most people working offices have one if they aren't one.'

'An older woman, brown curly hair,' the very detested florist elaborated as he carefully picked what seems to be silver-bloomed ox-eye daisy from a bucket full of water and other flowers, 'sharp nose, a bit too dark lipstick, conservatively dressed. Favours pink and flat shoes. What's her name, Mrs. Citrus, I think?'

'Mrs. Lime.'

'Yes, so she is your secretary.' Vetinari didn't bother answering that, but Downey didn't need the encouragement anyway. 'Also an excellent judge of character. She had described you to me, you know? Because she wanted some flowers you wouldn't throw outright to the trash. Granted, she had never said your name and I wasn't bothered enough to find out. Had my suspicions though. Oh, don't give me this silent treatment, that is so unlike you not to jabber all the time.'

Vetinari kept on giving him the silent treatment if only because it irked Downey.

The florist, as long as Downey could be considered a florist,* was nearly as much trembling as he was rambling. Vetinari was only waiting for the first object to be propelled in his general direction. Nothing like that happened. Instead, all of sudden, Downey stopped in motion altogether. Then he drew a deep breath. Then he tied a ribbon around the flower arrangement.

'Here. Get it sorted out in the front,' he said as he shoved the greenery into Vetinari's hands. Said far too calmly for it being Downey.

Vetinari turned to the door and before they could click close behind him, he heard Downey behind him shouting: 'And do come around again, been real nice seeing you.'

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

  
  


The quantum weather butterfly was known to Vetinari as one of the most annoying species of insect that had ever come to existence.* Vetinari was an educated man and knew about the wing-weather theory, but in his opinion something greater was important. Of course, had you asked him what had the greatest impact on the current political scene on Sto Plains, he wouldn't be able to give you the correct answer, no matter how sure he would be of it.

Here is the correct answer: Imagine a boy. No, not a boy, a young man. He grew up in the city and spent there nearly all his live. What is he doing here in this rocky countryside? He has to be cold, wearing only a light leather jacket of faded black. He shivers. He is cold indeed. Still, he goes on in a leisurely pace. He does not seem to be in hurry

Now imagine him approaching a farm where, after a moment of thought, he knocks on the door. The door opens to reveals a young boy who seems to be made mainly of knees, elbows and wiry ginger hair. The boy, speaking with a very thick Ramptop accent, calls his father. The father allows the young man in, speaking even in a thicker accent, thick enough for the young man to struggle understanding at times. He apologies with a soft smile – Morporkian is not his mother tongue. He is not going to bother them for long, if he could have a glass of water, and he'd be on his way.

The man, father of the boy, wants to hear nothing of it. The dark is closing in, there are wolves out there and whatnots. The young man is invited for a light dinner and the night.

The young man expresses his gratitude and introduces himself as Havelock. The father says his name is Lezek and that the boy is named Mortimer. It doesn't sound like anyone bothers to call Mortimer by his name.

Mortimer asks Havelock about the places he has been to. Where has he come from? Genua, more or less, Ankh-Morpork, actually, Überwald, as in he has just crossed the borders. Where is he going? Forward. Eventually to Ankh-Morpork, but there is no hurry. He knows that he is going to return to a well maintained city, he expects nothing less of Lord Keel.

In turn, Havelock asks Mortimer, about the place he has stayed his whole life at. What does the farm produce? Reannuals, mainly grapes, makes them into wine. Any good wine? Mortimer has no idea, he is not old enough to drink anyway. And does Mortimer help? Well, he is certainly trying.

The boys get up early in the morning the next day, because Mortimer wants to show Vetinari what it looks like when the reannual grape matures. He explains that they'll be planting this whole field in two years term. Now the grapes are almost ripe, just look at the beautiful colour Havelock.

Havelock eyes the grapes and asks about the crows. Oh, corws are a sore subject for Mortimer, the blasted birds don't seem to be afraid of him, not even when he charges at them shouting and flailing all his knees and elbows.

Did Mortimer know that crows, like all corvids, are very intelligent and can be, for example, trained? Mortimer didn't know it, but he is now tempted to try. He is too young to know that such a stupid idea cannot possibly work, and because this knowledge does not limit him, eventually he succeeds. That is, of course, a couple of months later, so he cannot thank Havelock for the idea, because the young man had left the time shortly after he gave him the brilliant idea.

Imagine, if you will, that in due time Mortimer & crow become a well known and well regarded brand of reannual wine, the rosé especially by the Duke Sto Helit, later King of Sto Lat.

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

  
  


Lord Vetinari, the head of the Morporkian branch of the Noble Bank of Genua, was heading back to his office suite for a very important appointment, and he was in a rather foul mood. Well, he described it as a foul mood. Mrs. Lime would later note he was extremely enraged.

In a part it is because of Downey. Mainly it is because of Downey. That man – Was it even appropriate to use the word man? There was something still so boyish about him! – had been making himself as difficult as possible. Possibly without even knowing it. However, there was a non-zero chance that he had been wearing a tight wet shirt that day on a purpose of provoking.

Such a lad as Downey was, he had no business looking this dashing. Vetinari remembered Downey from school: crude, loud, subtle as stubbed toe. He does not remember dashing. Or striking. Or anything near that. Not even any sort of ruffled elegancy.

Vetinari had many vices and few virtues, or he said so himself. But dishonesty wasn't one of them. He was willing to admit that he was finding Downey attractive.*

Less irritating but more pressing was the song. It had popped up in his head, he felt the urge to sing it. And he didn't remember half of the lyrics.

_There is a house on the Edgeway Road,_

_they call something-something-el._

_It's brought something a many poor girl,_

_great Gods, and me as well._

Then there was something about a jailer mother and a father who was a bother-man. Vetinari had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but according to the song:

_The only thing a bother needs_

_is a big dog and stiff drink._

_Something something something_

_something in the ring._

Vetinari didn't remember much of the text indeed. Still, he had the vague feeling it was a song about seamstresses. The song was about Madam July's house after all.

He was glad to see Mrs. Lime again. She was so amazing that she had made him a tea. She did not complain about her broken ankle, but she did give Vetinari a half-meant scorning for not sleeping enough.

'Don't you ever look into the mirror, Mr. Vetinari? You have bags under your eyes big enough to pack for a week road trip.' She got a vague reply and half a word of thanks for her concern.*

Vetinari hanged his coat on the rack and barricades himself in his office. That is, he closed the door behind himself for once. The flower is thrown into the vase with more force than is necessary. A stalk of one gods-know-what broke in its second third and bent over like a man stabbed in guts.

A sigh, rustling of paper, creaking of the chair, a wet huff from below the table.

'Oh, my apologies, Wuffles.'

The dog rolled on the other side and fell back asleep again.

'If you keep sleeping there, you have to expect the occasional shoe. Besides, your basket is next to the brazier, I am very sure.'

A quick glance revealed that Vetinari was wrong. Wuffles had pulled the basket behind the door. Again. A perfect trap.

It wasn't a problem for Vetinari, he always slid thorough a crevice in the not-even-halfway-open door. Once an assassin, always an assassin.

It wasn't a problem for Mrs. Lime who tiptoed in and tiptoed out like a ballet ghost. Or a ballet ghost with a broken ankle as it was.

Everyone else flung the door wide open, it ricocheted from the basket and hit them straight in face. Once an assassin's dog, always an assassin's dog. Although, Vetinari got Wuffles after he left the school.

Half an hour later the door flung open, ricocheted from the dog basket strategically placed behind the it, and hit the intruder straight in face. Which is why five minutes later the king of Sto Lat was sitting by Vetinari's desk with a handkerchief to his bloody nose.

'Seriously, Vetinari, don't bother with it. Got worse.'

'Perhaps, but still-'

'Got my weight worth in cyanide this morning. I think your door is fine. Besides, hooked nose looks better on coins.'

Vetinari had to admit that indeed, it did. 'This sort of business always seems to be easier when one has a distinctive profile.'

'Reminds me, you still have no ambitions on getting some less balanced chair closer to the top?'

'No, Your Majesty, not really.'

The bleeding finally receded. 'Good, I'd hate to argue with you about politics. It's enough that I get to talk to you about money. I still have the feeling you steal every bloody penny you can.'

'I am a banker, Your Majesty,' Vetinar steepled his fingers. 'That's my _job._ '

'At least you're honest about being dishonest. That's why I like haggling with you far better than talking to the... what do they call themselves? My advisers. Bunch of snakes, every single one.'

Vetinari's left eyebrow nearly hit the hairline.

'Of course, you are also a snake. But unlike them it's also the bloody first thing you've ever told me. Right after the wish of good afternoon.' His Majesty cracked his knuckles and made sure the nose was still in place. It was. It hurt as a tap dancing solo in shoes with inside spikes.

The men then stared at each other in absolute silence. Well, nearly absolute, because Wuffles was snoring and Mrs. Lime was boiling the kettle.

'And how are the cities?'

'United.'

'I see.' And indeed Vetinari saw. One of the few people who actually saw. Besides the King and the Patrician, probably the only one who really saw. 'So, how much?'

'Let's say a million.' In the end everything was the question of money. 'Two percent interest.'

'Three percent.'

The King tilted his head. 'I could always go to the Royal.'

Vetinari didn't look up from the forms he was preparing: 'You come to me because I am not the Royal Bank. Three percent. We are both reliable men. Sto Plain needs the money now, I need the money in the future.'

His Majesty growled, but signed the papers in three copies all the same. In the end everything was answered by money as well. The still wet ink smeared, making the angular _Y_ in Ryechart nearly illegible.

'Pleasure doing business with you, Your Majesty.'

'Not a pain in ass doing business with you, Lord Vetinari.' The king stood up and headed for the door.

Then he stopped. As if he remembered something.

He turned around. 'Listen, have you got, like, free evenings? We should catch up some day. Dinner or something. As long as you don't bring cyanide, I think I'm developing an allergy.'

Vetinari's smile was blank and polite. 'Oh, of course. Please, consult with Mrs. Lime what time and date would be the most suitable for you.'

'I meant as friends.'

'Oh,' Vetinari said. His smile dropped dead to the floor. 'I don't do that, I'm afraid.'

King Ryechard of Sto Lat looked around the bare office. 'Should have guessed. It shows. Ah, by the way, does your florist international deliveries?'

  
  


///\\\\\///\\\\\

  
  


Vetinari took Wuffles back to his house. He was planning on visiting Madam July, but he felt he needed a moment to close his eyes before that happens.

It was a small house. Compared to the rest of the houses in the Ankh half of the city anyway. It had a roof and a front door, which were the main qualities Vetinari had been looking for when had bought it. The first floor and the cellar were also a nice touch. The stucco decor was too much, but a man couldn't have it all.

He unlocked the door and fell flat on the couch in the lounge. The lounge had never seen any other use anyway.

When Vetinari woke up, it was about two hours later. At least judged by the clock.

He changed into something fresher. Then he shaved. That was a bit complicated in a house which had no mirrors or servants.

Vetinari hated mirrors. Or rather, he did not like to pass in front of them. Seeing his own reflection lead to picking at his skin. He had decided to get rid of all the mirrors in the house the day Mrs. Lime was horrified to find him coming to work with face covered with blood.

The Madam used to tell him something about men who did not own any mirrors. For the grace of god, he could not recall what it was. He had to ask her the next time they met.

He bit down on a left over Klatchian take out, threw on his coat and left the house.

The Edgeway Road was just across the river.

*Considered he worked in a flower shop, not only Downey could be considered a florist, he _was_ an actual florist. Displeased Vetinari, however, wasn't going to let something as trivial and stupid as fact stop him from his bias.

*Partially because Downey had picked up butterfly collecting in the fifth year. The whole Tree Frog House had been explained at length how elusive and evasive this particular butterfly was, because he never failed to tell them about it at least twice a day. And that was before he had caught that bloody thing.

*But only in the privacy of his own head, and only when there was no other option left. Additionally he had decided to think about it as little as possible. Considered the future events it still meant a lot.

*That is the regular salary of secretaries, so Mrs. Lime didn't take it personally. She only marked it red in the accounting books.

 


End file.
